


Things Have Changed Since We Last Met

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction, you know you're gonna have fun when you cried reading the prompt request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 14:27:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4395365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Prompt: Root finally found Shaw in a Samaritan basement. But Shaw's suffering from sorta paraplegia. “We have to go, Shaw. She said we only have 2 minutes." "Root, I can't walk.” #I'm so sorry i was just thinking what could possibly crack Shaw #;_;</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Have Changed Since We Last Met

Sameen Shaw was stabbed in the back. Literally.

A harsh grunt escapes her as she feels the blade dig into her lower vertebrae, and her teeth grind together. The blade is shoved in further, and her eyes squeeze shut as she tries to remain calm. The floor is cold and hard against her cheek, hands sticking to the tiles as the blood on her palms begins to dry.

“There’s no leaving,  _Bunny_ ,” a greasy voice slides into her ear, and her lips curl into a snarl. She tries to push up, but at the slightest movement, her back screams, muscles convulsing up her entire spine, and she gives up with a sharp yelp. The knife twists, and her breath catches, fingernails shrieking as she drags them across the tile floor in agonizing pain. “We’ve  _barely_  even started.”

Shaw can feel hot liquid spilling down her sides- feels it soaking into the white hospital gown- and wonders between molten burst of pain how to make it stop. “Get.  _Off_.” She growls, voice like gravel. She feels like dirt.

“Sure thing,” he replies in a voice as slippery as oil slick, and Shaw can imagine his perfect teeth drawn up in a sickening grin. “As  _soon_  as you tell me  _where_  they are.” Shaw’s eyes harden.

* * *

 

“I don’t  _know_  where they are,” she spits, strained words tinged with annoyance. “How many times do I have to tell you assholes.”  _Wrong answer_  the blade says as it plunges down further. Her shoulders convulse, surging up, until he clamps a large hand down on her left, forcing her back to the ground.  _Where are the nurses; where is anyone at all._ She’s unsure. She remembered being holed up in a hospital for months; then- without warning- she was dressed and hustled into a black SUV. After endless hours of winding roads, they appeared here, in a place that was a cross between Dracula’s castle and an abandoned insane asylum.

“Are you  _deaf_?” She growls, turning her head the opposite way. She takes in his Caribbean blue eyes and slick black hair, seeing the closest thing to the devil. “Or are you just that  _stupid_. I don’t. Know. Where. They.  _Are_.”

“Don’t  _play_  with me, Bunny,” he tells her in a soft voice; however, there are warning tones underneath as his grip tightens on her shoulder. “You’ve worked with them for years; you gotta know  _something_.” Shaw can taste bile in her throat as she is overcome with a sense of nausea, eyes momentarily blurring from focus before snapping back. Her back is on fire, and the burning only grows with each passing second. It’s blinding- unbearable- and she feels the air trapped in her lungs; unable to breathe.

“You know something?” She says at last, a hysteric laugh edging her words. “I’m actually starting to  _miss_  Rousseau. She was a lot easier on the eyes- she actually had a  _brain_  behind her face, too.” The man’s smile dips down into a contemptuous sneer

“You’re testing my patients,” he warns, knives in his voice as sharp as the one in Shaw’s back. Through the agony, she snorts.

“You’re telling  _me_.”

There is a sharp pain in Shaw’s back as the dagger is torn roughly out. She sucks in an excruciated gasp, swearing it hurt worse coming out then going in. An insanity-inducing pain wracks her arms, scorches her spine, blinds her eyes, and rips her stomach to shreds. She can barely focus in on a single thought past it all. She feels herself rolled haphazardly onto her back, head whacking the cold floor painfully, and her breathing comes in labored heaves. The dress is wet on her back, and she can feel blood spilling in horrid waves, already bringing an alien coldness to her body. Sweat breaks on her brow as she fights a scream, needing somewhere to relieve her pressure, but wanting to save it for when she snaps his neck.

In the blink of an eye, the knife- glistening with crimson- is placed at her neck. Shaw can feel the edge of the blade pressing into her skin, but she doesn’t so much as blink.

“Do it,” she sneers, raising her pounding head microscopically to look him defiantly in the eye. “I  _dare_  you.”

“I  _just_  might,” he retorts, angered spit splattering her face. “You’re proving  _quite_  useless.”

“Jacob,” an older, calmer voice breaks in, shattering the situation like glass. Jacob looks up, knife still poised at Shaw’s throat, and Shaw rolls her eyes in the same direction. “What on earth are you doing with our guest?”

“She was trying to escape,” he answers tightly, muscles tensing visibly. “But I got her.”

The old man nods, icy eyes paired with a quaint, all-knowing smile. “I see. You also caused quite a panic amongst the other patients in the facility.”

“No one will believe  _them_ ,” Jacob snarls, although there is a respectful air in his loathing tone. “They’re all here because they see and hear things anyway.”

“No one would believe one or two of them,” the old man agrees, nodding his head. He steps forward easily, not in the slightest afraid; on the contrary, every movement seems pre-calculated. As if he’s thought out every possible scenario of each thing he does. “But when fifteen  _all_  see the same thing? That gives reasonable pause.”

“She’s fast,” Jacob responds, a whine in his voice. “I got to her as soon as I could.”

“Not fast enough.”

“Greer, I-”

“No matter,” the old man says, beckoning a woman forward. She wears the same style suit as Jacob, matching earwig and all, and walks forward to Shaw. Greer turns, walking back into the shadows of the darkened hall. “Just get her back up. Return her to her room.”

Without another word, the red-haired woman stoops down at Shaw’s right, encasing Shaw’s upper arm with her hands. Jacob does the same with her left, and- with a minute nod to each other- they begin to lift her off the ground. Shaw, against all restraints, lets out a groan, vomit rising in the back of her throat as her vision flickers black from the pain. She can feel her back separating as they pick her up, each second suspended making her feel as if her body will rip in two.

“The hell did you  _do_  to her?” The woman hisses, acknowledging with wide eyes the copious amount of blood littering the floor.

“I did what was necessary,” he responds coldly, and they bring Shaw to her feet. At once, they buckle down as if her bones are made of Jell-o. Shaw sinks to her knees before the two agents muster enough strength to catch her, hauling her back upright. “Stop being difficult,” Jacob commands, shoving Shaw forward. Again, she begins to fall, a stabbing pain erupting behind her cool eyes. “For God’s  _sake_ ,” he mutters, hoisting her arm up painfully. The woman does the same, and they begin carrying Shaw off.

“Maybe if you were a little nicer to her,” the woman suggests sheepishly, not meeting Shaw’s eyes.

“ _Nicer_  to her?” Jacob spits back incredulously. “What are you, her guardian angel?”

“She might not be so difficult,” she points out, but Jacob is already shaking his head.

“No, she’ll always be like this,” he says distastefully. “She’s just another  _prick_.”

“Sorry,  _Bunny_ ,” Shaw cuts in with a sarcastic tone. Her eyes are murderous, but the rest of her remains without expression. “Bastard is just contagious around this place.” She can see the steam rising from Jacob’s ears, and a satisfied smirk pushes its way past the excruciating pain she feels. The three continue down the hall without another word, the two agents walking briskly towards the elevator; Shaw’s feet dragging limply between.

_____________\ If Your Number’s Up /_____________

“Are you  _sure_  about this?” Harold Finch asks, an uneasy prickle spreading across her chest. “You remember what happened last time.”

“This isn’t like that,” Root insists for the umpteenth time. She leans over, grabbing her coat off the backrest of a station car’s chair. “It isn’t a trap this time.”

“And how do you know that for sure?” He asks, stepping towards her. His eyes are gentle as he rests a hand on her shoulder, halting her preparation. She shoots him a quick, annoyed glance before doing a double take, this time studying him. Her eyes don’t become any less irritable. Root stares at him stiffly a moment, then sighs.

“I don’t,” she answers at last, but a determination hardens her gaze. “But you have to trust the data. To trust me. Trust  _Her_.” Harold cocks his head to the side, looking at her with sympathetic eyes. “I’ve been figuring this out for over a month; I’ve checked every patient list and every hospital in the city. I’ve tracked movements, and I’ve followed logs; I-”

“I don’t doubt any of that,” Harold assures her. “It’s just that…” He trails off, straining to find the right words. “Each time you’ve searched, something- something has gone  _wrong_.” Visions of drilling a hole into a woman’s hand and being strapped to a cot- small power saw at her neck- come to her, but she swats them all peskily away.

“I  _need_  to find her, Harold.”

“I know,” he sighs, eyes drawing up sadly. “And believe me, I’d like nothing more than to see her back too, but I don’t want you getting killed in the process.” Root’s eyes soften slightly. They’d hit a rough patch- both knew- and it was the first sign of endearment he’d expressed to her in some time. However, she shakes her head of thought, pulling free of Harold’s light hold and heading to the cabinet to grab some extra ammunition.

“Not planning on it,” she responds, wicked smile lighting up her sad face. Harold had seen that expression too many times in recent months, and it never ceased to bring a sharp pang to his heart. The smile was the worst. Seeing the hurt in her eyes was bad enough, but having to endure a smile that swore she was fine was nearly too much to bear.

She shuts the locker, walking back past Harold and towards an awaiting John Reese. He leans against Harold’s desk, eyes calm as he watches the two approach from the subway car. Root gives him a dashing look before heading out, and John pushes off the desk, ready to follow. However, with one look at Harold, he stops.

Harold’s eyes dart over to the exit, waiting for Root to escape a little further, before he steps forward. His eyes are serious behind black-rimmed glasses, and he looks at Reese evenly.

“Keep your eye on Miss. Groves,” Harold says, voice slightly wary. A microscopic smirk appears at the corner of John’s mouth.

“Don’t worry, Finch, I’ll bring her back,” John says, heading out.

“Make sure it’s  _alive_ , Mr. Reese,” Harold calls out, and John can’t help the rumble of laughter that escapes him.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he responds.

________\ We’ll Find You /_________

Reese pulls past an establishment that makes the Eastern State Penitentiary look like a playground. Both John and Root take it in with awed eyes; the dark stone walls looming high into the sky, leaving shadows dark as death across the overgrown grounds. Large, wrought iron gates tipped with barbed wire taking the entire perimeter, and a smaller gated area within for parking. Only three cars and an ambulance occupy the space, but both can tell that- past the dark tinted windows and hauntingly silent air- the building is teeming with an army of fire ants, all ready to attack with a single disruption to their colony.

He parks the car a block off before turning the key. Just as Root tugs at the door handle, John brings a hand to her forearm, waiting for her to pivot back. Grudgingly, she turns her face to look at him. He can see the anticipation in her eyes, and her entire body carries a hopeful vibe.

“Be careful in there,” he tells her, eyes serious. “And if we don’t find h-”

“We’re  _going_  to find her.” John sits, patiently, waiting for Root’s brief outburst to simmer away.

“If we don’t find her  _here_ , you’ve got to promise me you’re not gonna go kamikaze on everyone in there, got it?” Root stares at him a moment, then smiles. She turns to open the door once more, and John hits the lock on the door. An astonished laugh leaves her as she turns on him with disbelieving eyes. “We both know what happened in Maple-”

“They were there to-”

“I know. But this is a  _hospital_ , Root. Not everyone is out for you. We aren’t killing innocent people.”

“I know tha-”

“Then promise me that you’ll remain in control.” Root looks around the car, forcing her antsy nerves to calm. John switches the key back, revving the engine as his hand reaches for the gear shifter.

“ _Fine_ ,” she says at last, an irritation in her voice. “I promise.  _Good_?” John gives her a final one over, kills the engine, then steps out of the car. The excitement lights up her entire smile, and she jumps from the car like a child before the gates of the carnival. Only, the games at each booth are much harder, and the prize in sight more important than any stuffed bear or super-sized lollipop.

“You sure about this place?” John asks, looking up at the large gates impressed with the letters GH at the handles. There is a large buzzer to the far left, and John- with no other evident options- hits it. There is the sound of an electric hum, and two men saunter down the long driveway, guns at their belt and sunglasses over their eyes. A few, long minutes pass, and the men finally square off with the two on the opposite side of the gate.

“State your business,” the first barks out in gruff voice.

“Our ma is here,” Root says in a polite tone, smile sugar sweet as she leans towards John in good nature. The men look to John, and he breaks into an awkward grin. The first man’s lip twitches at the sight; the guards look at each other. Then, shrugging, they smack a button on the inside bars, and it mechanically falls away. John and Root share a conversation in a glance before stepping into the domain. The gate locks behind them- _no turning back._

“Some security you got here,” John comments aloud as the four meander down the path. John can feel anticipation radiating from every pore of Root’s body, and only hopes the two guards don’t notice.

“It’s more to keep  _them_  in than  _you_  out,” one replies, mustache quivering over his top lip as he speaks. The rest of the walk is filled with the crunching of gravel under their feet and bated breath.

“Please step into the room to your left for scanning,” the second guard instructs stoically. Then, seeing Root’s questioning look, adds, “It’s security protocol, ma'am.”

Root and Reese step into a brightly lit room, sterile white walls and clean smell contrasting deeply from the medieval outer core. They are greeted by one man and one woman, kind smiles on their faces as they stand with only handheld metal detectors. Root takes a quick glance around, finds no cameras in sight, and starts briskly forward.

The woman’s smile falters as Root rushes her head on, bringing her straight into a neck lock. A surprised squeak leaves the woman’s throat as she reaches back, fingers grappling for anything to grab. Then, she goes limp. The man, finally coming out of shock, lunges at Root. Root, letting the woman drop, dodges him easily before grabbing him by the back of his shirt, kneeing him in the chest, and pushing him off. He staggers back, gasping, and wipes his mouth before charging at her once more. He sinks a punch deep into her stomach, and she folds over. Yet, as he tries to take her down, she throws herself to the side. Taken by surprise, he falls off balance, and she rolls on top of him. She brings her elbow to his throat, holding him down until his flailing limbs begin to slow, then stop entirely.

“What the  _Hell_?” John asks, a higher pitch in his collected voice as he comes forward.

“What?” Root asks defensively, coming to her knees. “I didn’t  _kill_  them.” John narrows his eyes distastefully her way, and she stands, walking back to the unconscious woman before kneeling. “Besides, we need disguises.”

So, one change and one spare closet later, the duo leave the scanning room in Gehenna Hospital uniforms.

“I’ll stall the front desk; you find Shaw,” John says, smoothing down his grey t-shirt before walking to the right. Root watches him go a moment, relishing the sight of John in khakis two inches too short at his ankles with humor, then turns, heading down the opposite hall.

“Talk to me, Harry,” Root says beneath a smile, waving at a nurse that passes her.

“You’re looking for room-”

“Two-forty-one,” Root interjects impatiently. “I know that, I just need to know where to go.” She takes a left at the end of the hall, then steps into the nearest closet. Flicking on a light, she pulls a spare pharmacy jacket on, buttoning it over the security shirt, then swoops her hair into a tight bun. In her ear, she can hear the rapid click of a keyboard.

“Two floors below ground level,” Harold replies, voice too focused to be short-tempered with Root’s tone. She cracks the door, checks both ways, then slides out, stalking purposefully down the hall. She can feel her nerves begin to rattle as she sees the white halls crowded with doctors and nurses, each one of them seeming to look right at her. Her fingers twitch, and she crosses her arms to keep it from showing.  _Stay calm, stay…_

Her heart stops, mid-beat, as a large, oak door with a barred window and small staircase sign comes into view. Trying not to run, Root can feel her pace quicken as she bursts through the door, taking the metal stairs two at a time. Her heels echo down each stair like gunshots in the air, but she ignores it entirely. Down the first flight, she looks through the door’s window. Her stomach sinks.

Every person is dressed in dark grey suits, purposefully stalking along the black corridors. Like the center of a hive, operatives buzz in and out of hospital rooms turned offices. She sees a familiar face emerge from one of the rooms and presses herself against the wall quickly.  _Greer._

Root speeds down the next flight of stairs, nearly running into a man in a crisp business suit. He stumbles back down a step, surprised, then his Caribbean blue eyes turn to ice. A calculated look takes them over, and an oily smile spreads over his mouth, revealing unnaturally white teeth.

“Would you believe me if I told you we’ve been looking  _everywhere_  for you, Groves?” He asks, stepping back up on the staircase. Root feels an anger rise up in her that she can’t quite place, and stands up straighter, eyes authoritative.

“I’d say no,” Root says, smile topping her snide voice. “But…  _who_  are  _you_?” She gives him a degrading look over. “Samaritan Barbie’s replacement?” His teeth grind together, fury radiating from him. Then, a wicked thought crosses his wicked mind.

“Oh, you haven’t  _heard_?” He asks, Cheshire Cat grin on his clean shaved face. “The name’s Jacob. I’m the one who’s been taking care of your little girlfriend while you’ve been away.”

Root grabs him by the collar, shoving him forcefully against the wall. “What have you done to her,” Root snarls, giving him barely enough leash to breathe. He uses it to chuckle.

“Now,  _now_ , Sweetheart,” he says. “I don’t disclose secrets until the  _second_  date.”

“Sorry,” Root responds, faux pout on her lips. “But you’re not even getting a first.” With that, she yanks Jacob away from the wall, throwing him over the railing. One, two, three seconds pass, and there is a sickening crunch as he hits the ground. Root runs down the stairs, finding him sprawled out on the tiled ground, arm bent at an odd angle and leg under him halfway down the femur. She can feel her face pull into a wince.

“ _That_  looks kinda painful,” Root says, pursing her lips and squatting down at his side. “But not as painful as this is  _gonna_  be,” she places her gun to his left kneecap, silencer pinning the fabric of his suit to his skin, “if you don’t tell me-  _right now_ \- what you’ve done to her.” Past the pain screaming in his eyes and the sweat running down his sickly colored face, he smiles.

“What  _haven’t_  I done to her.”

Root presses a hand over his mouth before putting two bullets into his knee cap. She can feel the hotness of his breath on her palm as she muffles his shriek. Now, it is her turn to smile. Taking her hand from his mouth, she gives his pallid cheek a pat, a sympathetic look in her devilish eyes.

“That wasn’t smart, now  _was_  it, Jacob?” She asks.

“Stupid  _bitch_ ,” he bursts, spitting at her. She deflects it easily, then brings the barrel of her gun to his head. His eyes pull wide, the coldness like a precursor to death on his skin. “You wouldn’t do that to an innocent man,” he informs her; demands it of her. A hideously amused laugh escapes her as she flips her hair over one shoulder.

“You’re right,” she says, odd smile on her face as her eyes bore into him like black holes. “I’d never shoot an  _innocent_  man.”

________\ Things Have Changed /________

Root smooths her hair back cooly, hoping the bullet hole in the knee and slight red mist on the jacket’s charcoal collar aren’t too noticeable. She tosses the lab coat discreetly into the nearest trashcan, not missing a beat in her fast paced walk. She holds her back up straight, chin raised authoritatively, mimicking the other agents flooding past her. She brings a finger gingerly to the earpiece in her left ear, turning the dial up a bit.

She can hear a bunch of voices calling out things useless to her, and turns it back down. Along with Jacob’s suit, Root had snatched up his earwig, hoping to have a heads up on any attacks being planned against her and John.

“Is everything alright, Miss. Groves? Mr. Reese?” Harold asks, voice coming to her from the right. She smiles, having the two opposing forces clashing literally within her.  _Samaritan to the left, The Machine to the right_ , she muses, unable to suppress her grin as she looks at the numbers on each door.

_Two- twenty-eight; Two- twenty-nine; Two- thirty._

“Everything’s good on my end, Finch,” John says, and Root can hear the sound of computers and telephones behind him.

“Same here,” Root replies shortly, words less than a breath as they leave her.

_Two- thirty-three; Two- thirty-four; Two- thirty-five._

Root’s nerves are squirrels high on caffeine, running circles around her as they screech and jump and soar. Her lungs burn- she doesn’t even dream of breathing- as her stomach soars to her throat and her heart slams like a sledge hammer against her ribs. She can feel her hands shaking, veins slicked with epinephrine and flowing with adrenaline. A buzz drills in the back of her head, all the while her mind feels more awake than ever.

_Two- thirty-nine; Two- forty; Two forty-o…_

Root’s breath catches in her throat, heart stopping mid-beat as her stomach plummets past her ankles. She feels sick- nauseous- as the room begins to spin.  _There is no room Two- forty-one_. Root’s mind instantly begins to spiral down like a fighter jet out of control, driving into sheer panic.  _It has to be here,_ Root thinks to herself, nails digging deeply into the sides of Jacob’s pants as she looks around the vicinity. She’d memorized the number- seared it into her head and scratched it into her heart.  _But it’s no where._  Here she is, standing at the center of a Samaritan Headquarters searching for a room that doesn’t exist.

Her throat begins to constrict, pinpricks of hotness at the corners of her eyes, and a heavy rage presses down on her. She wants to throw her guns up; turn everything to Hell. To damn it all; to go down guns blazing just to get rid of this fury, this defeat- this anguish. Just as her hand slips to her waistline, a hand grabs her, pulling her to a dark crevice away from all prying eyes. Before she’s even stopped moving, Root has her weapon cocked and poised, finger begging to pull the trigger. In the shadows, she can see the whites of two large, hazel eyes.

“Don’t shoot!” She whispers out frantically. “I can help.”

“Who are you,” Root demands, growl low enough to barely reach the woman’s ears.

“D-D-Diane,” she stutters out. “You’re- you’re here for- for- for the- for Sameen Shaw. I- I can take you to her.” The sneer falls from Root’s face at the words, but then her eyes harden.

“How do I know this isn’t a ruse.”

“As crazy as it sounds,” the woman says, a small tremble in her voice mixed with a terrified laugh. “You’ll have to trust me.” Root’s eyes narrow, but she lowers her gun.

“I won’t trust you, but I’ll follow you.” Then, quick as a flash, Root has the woman at the waist, nozzle of her silencer digging painfully into the woman’s side. A meager squeak escapes her, but she swallows a scream. “Now  _go_.”

Diane takes off briskly down an unlit corridor, turning right by sense more than sight; pushing open an ebony door. At once, Root is met by blindingly white lights. The whole hallway reminds her of the hospital only two floors above. Looking over at Diane, Root sees her auburn hair shining against the lights, large eyes haunted with a gaunt frame. She looks as if she’s being eaten from the inside out, something Root knows only guilt can induce.

“Why are you helping me?” Root asks, voice more conversational than before as she releases Diane.

“I’ve seen what they do here,” she replies gravely. “And what they’ve done to her. I- I can’t take it anymore. I  _can’t_.” There is a terror in her Root had never heard voiced, and it sends a shiver down her spine. _What have they done to Shaw?_  “I have to warn you,” she continues, jarring Root from her thoughts. “They have a silent alarm in here. The place will be flooded in five minutes. There’s a service elevator in the back, but it only takes you one floor up. You’re on your own after that.”

Diane stops halfway down the hall, stoic body turning to stone at the heavy metal door. She holds out a set of keys in her hand, letting them dangle before her face. Root has half a mind to shoot her, unsure if this is still all a trap. If Diane is just waiting for Root to step into the room, waiting to lock her in, grab the others of her kind, and kill her off.  _She can’t do that if she’s dead._  However, as her hand tightens its hold on her weapon, she thinks back to John’s words.

_We don’t kill innocent people._

Looking at Diane, she can read pure sorrow in her hollowed eyes, and a small flame of hope flickering, hoping that- in this action- she can begin to redeem all the wrong she’s done. Stowing her weapon away, Root swipes the keys. Before they even fully make it into her hand, Diane is halfway down the hall, scurrying back to the black door.

“ _Hey_!” Root calls out, forcing control over herself long enough to say one last thing to the red head. She turns back. “Be careful.” Diane gives her a small but sincere smile, mouths the word ‘Hurry’, and is gone.

Root turns her head to the door.  _Two- forty-one_. Her heart commences its unreliable rhythm once more as her legs turn to putty. They bear the weight of the world in Root’s hand as she forces her lead arm to the keyhole. There is no window on the door, leaving everything behind it petrifying. It can either be her worst nightmare or all that she’s dreamed for. Steeling her nerves, she turns the key in its chamber, and listens with sky high nerves as a loud  _‘CL-CLANK’_  greets her ears like a bomb in the silence. Root’s heart is in her throat now as she pushes the door in.

It glides silently on well oiled hinges, revealing a dank, dark room. It is nothing like Root expected- but then- she wasn’t sure what she was expecting.  _Not this._

A single, incandescent lightbulb hangs limply from the ceiling, casting a pale yellow color across the gray, windowless cell. It appears entirely empty save for a metal chair in the center of the room, legs bolted to the ground, striped back facing her. In it is a slumped over form.

Root’s breath hitches as she silently creeps forward, steps cautious like the entire room is wired and one wrong step could blow her to pieces. She walks around to face the petite figure head on. She can see bare feet with ankles strapped to the chair’s legs by leather straps; alongside a matching set that hold the figure’s pallid wrists in place. The figure wears a bleach white hospital gown and a black sack over their head. Heart hammering out of control, breath held, and stomach in a thousand knots, Root slowly brings a quivering hand forward. She grabs the top of the sack. Pulls.

Dark, black hair is set free, fanning out and falling over the woman’s shoulders and face. Her head is bowed.

“Shaw?” It comes out as a cracked whisper, every ounce of hope Root has left poured into the one name.

The head lifts, revealing icy brown eyes and a sneer to match. A sneer Root knows all too well. A choke escapes her, and she brings her hands to her mouth, not wanting to cry out but high enough to scream. Shaw, realizing the figure before her, blinks a few times before the sneer falls away, leaving her jaw the slightest bit unhinged.

“ _Root_? What- what are you  _doing_  here?” Shaw asks, voice tinged with a dehydrated croak. Root can’t even answer, too wrapped up in a smothering joy to be able to speak. She just rushes forward at Shaw, bringing her hands to either side of Shaw’s face as she brings herself close. She feels her legs as they get ready to cave, but forces herself to remain standing. She studies Shaw’s face from only an inch away, dopey smile thrown lopsidedly across her face as she drinks Shaw in. She becomes intoxicated by the mere sight. She wants to kiss her; to hug her; to hold her close just knowing that Shaw really is there; as real and tangible as herself. A thought smacks her back to her senses.

“We have to get out of here,” Root says, remembering the time limit, and calculating the measly amount of seconds they have left. Withdrawing her knife, Root saws through the restraints at Shaw’s ankles, then her hands. “We only have-”

Shaw’s grip is iron clad as her fingers clamp around Root’s wrist, and Root freezes. She sees fireworks before her eyes as her nerve endings explode completely. “You have to leave,” she tells Root, eyes serious. “Now.”

“I know,” Root replies, slipping from Shaw’s grasp and heading towards the door. “Which is why  _we_  are going. Come on Shaw, we  _have_  to go; we only have two minutes.”

“Without me.” Root stops, a ten car pile-up in her chest as she turns, words slowing her head and making her numb.

“ _What_? What-  _no_. No, I’m  _not_  doing that, I’m not going to-  _no_.” Root can feel the lump coming back to her throat as frustration swells in her system.

“I’m going to slow you down too much.” Root kneels back to the side of Shaw’s chair, eyes becoming livid.

“I don’t  _care_!” She hisses back, hands wrenching the metal chair’s icy armrest. “I’m not leaving without you. I already lost you once, so if you even  _think_  I’m losing you again, you are-”

“Root, I can’t walk.” Shaw says, voice a dull monotone as she stairs straight ahead. Root shakes her head distastefully.

“It’s okay, you can lean on me. Now let’s go.”

“I can’t walk,” Shaw says again, this time a twinge of anger edging her words. Root stands, coming before Shaw with a set lip. She leans down, a hand to each of Shaw’s, ready to pull.

“I get that you’re not going to be in running shape, Sam. But if you just  _stand_ , we can go sl-”

“At all.” Root stops, ice coating her veins and freezing her heart.

“What?”

“I can’t walk. At all.” Root is still a moment before she jerks back, brow furrowed as she tries to bring it all together in her head. Her eyes travel down to Shaw’s legs, where they are strewn at two awkward angles. Root’s head tilts to the side as she tries to sort through it all; it being something too hard to digest in such a quick time.

“Wh…” Root trails off, unable to get the question out past her stupor; although, she brings her slowly dawning eyes on Shaw.

“Got a knife between the fourth and fifth vertebrae,” Shaw answers, seeing the question written on Root’s face. Root’s face turns ashen as the realization hits her with the force of a freight train. She swallows. Hard.

“That’s- you have-,” Shaw nods.

“Yup,” she agrees casually to Root’s unspoken claim. “Paraplegia.” At the word, Shaw’s eyes spike with pain. Root can see every mission; every athletic stunt; every enemy takedown flash before Shaw in a stabbing agony that hurts more than the injury itself. As hard as she tries to look indifferent, Root can see through the cool outer shell to Shaw’s grave inner core. For a few long seconds, the two stare at each other in silence, letting the word hang in the air. Finally, Root snaps to.

Running further into the room, she begins searching in the near dark for anything hidden within. “There has to be a wheelchair around here  _somewhere_ ,” Root mutters to herself, feeling along the walls and willing her eyes to focus in on something-  _anything_ \- out of the ordinary.

“You don’t have  _time_  for this,” Shaw yells at her angrily.

“I have  _plenty_  of  _time_ ,” Root barks back, trying to keep the pain from her voice. The pain of knowing that if there isn’t a wheel chair, they’re both trapped.

Root trips over something on the ground, stumbling, and catches herself on the wall. Like a miracle in Hell, she sees the world’s rustiest set of metal bars connected to oblong wheels carved of stone by cavemen. Pulling it up, six centuries worth of dust puffs into the air. The seat is nearly rotted through, the metal parts screeching like banshees as she rolls it roughly over to Shaw’s seat. Shaw stares at it, unsure what to do; well- more accurately- how to do it.

From somewhere far off but still too close, Root can hear shouts and the thundering boom of twenty footsteps. Without a second thought, Root swoops down, encasing Shaw’s waist in her arms and hauling her up. To her slight fright, Root feels just how light Shaw is, but pushes it away from her head, having more pressing matters to fill the space.

Shaw lets out a pained hiccup, and Root feels a pang of guilt. She can feel the metal bars of a brace under her fingers, and lets Shaw down as softly as she can. Then, she hands Shaw a gun. When Shaw looks up at her with a flash of curiosity, Root smiles.

“Cover me.”

_________\ Since We Last Met /_________

The two made it safely to the elevator, Root seeing the black door open just as their own, stainless steel set closed, and tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for the next floor to reveal itself.

Finally, there is a ding, and the doors slide gracefully open. To Root’s surprise, no one seems in the slightest aware of the outbreak. Root asks no questions, merely tearing Shaw off the elevator and wheeling her noisily towards the second one down the left hall. It looked so close; however, with so many operatives littering the scene, the distance couldn’t have felt farther.

Root can hear chatter in her left ear pick up, and knows the time is almost upon them.

“Patient Two- forty-one is gone.”

“ _Gone_?”

“Gone.”

“The elevator was just in use.”

“All agents: keep patient Two- forty-one  _in_  headquarters.”

“What does it look like?”

“Small framed, Persian descent. Paraplegic; she can’t be going anywhere alone. Look for a wheelchair.  _Go_.”

Root wheels faster, swearing under her breath at the loudness of the chair as it draws attention like moths to a flame. At once, registration crosses the multitudes of faces, and they all reach for their service weapons simultaneously.

“You ready, Sweetie?” Root asks under her breath, and a smile spreads wickedly across Shaw’s face.

“I’ve been waiting for  _months_  to kick some ass.” With that, Root whips the chair around, pulling it backwards as she steers with one hand, other brandishing a gun. Together, the two snap the agents like toothpicks, all the while Root strains to get them to the elevator in time. She hits the button.

The agents pour in from the woodwork, coming like rain in a storm, then- like an anaconda- they close in to constrict their prey.

The doors slide open, and Root all but throws them both in, hitting the ground level button before her mind even has time to register. The operatives descend, all firing as they race to the doors. As they close, Root and Shaw continue to shoot through the narrowing opening of the doors. A burly man with black eyes and sharp teeth rushes them head on, hands outstretched. His meaty fingers graze the doors just as they close. The sound of bullets is deafening as large dents wrack the metal. However, Root feels the elevator jump to a start, and a relieved sigh escapes her.

“They’re getting away.”

“On the elevator.”

“We need  _all_  units on the ground fl-”

Root throws the Samaritan issued earpiece from her ear, stepping on it with her heel and grinding it to mechanical powder. Then, she shimmies free of the pants, revealing the security khakis still underneath.

“I think it’s time you get the car started,” Root says breathily, yanking off the jacket and setting her hair free. “They’re coming.”

The doors start to slide; yet, before they are even three quarters of the way open, Root dashes out, pushing Shaw along in front of her. Her heels echo down the hall as she runs, wheels on the chair threatening to give with each rotation. They receive a few stunned gasps, but Root doesn’t even stop. Instead, she pulls down the nearest fire alarm.

At once, loud sirens consume the building, red light flashing out of each alarm, and sprinklers rain down on them all. Root can feel herself slipping already on the wet ground.

“Where are you?” John asks, voice low but calm in Root’s ear.

“I’m rounding the corner to you now,” she responds, then promptly barrels into the hallway. John, taking the whole sight in in under three seconds, leaves his post at the desk, running alongside Root as they make a brake for the doors.

“You can’t bring her through here!” The guard with the mustache barks, putting up a hand. John, without blinking, raises his gun at the man, point blank. Behind his sunglasses, the whites of the guard’s eyes are visible

“I think we  _can_ ,” John responds icily. Before anyone has time to protest, he takes out the first guard’s kneecaps, then the second’s. They’re off, hauling down the gravel path, Root pulling Shaw backwards once more as the old wheels drag through the small rocks, kicking up and spraying about.

“I thought we weren’t killing innocent people,” Root jokes, exhilaration making her light headed. John gives her a playfully cross look.

With each step, Root feels the wheelchair growing heavier, sinking deeper into the rocks until she can barely walk at all. At seeing men and women in suits bursting- soaked- out the front door, Root stops entirely.

“Help me pick her up,” Root commands, coming to Shaw’s side and wrapping an arm around her.

“What?” John asks, slowing down until he’s finally stopped. He looks at the chair and the top of Shaw’s head curiously.

“I’ll explain later,” Root assures him, voice impatient. “Now hurry up.” He comes to Shaw’s other side, taking a moment to look at her. A quaint smile comes to his face, and his eyes soften. Shaw looks up at him, then a defensive scowl comes to her lips.

“What are  _you_  looking at?” She demands sourly, and John gives his head a light shake, smile deepening.

“It’s real good to see you, Shaw.” Shaw rolls her eyes.

“You can be emotional about in the car,” Shaw informs him, although her eyes share the warmth of seeing him as well. “Let’s go; I didn’t come this far to  _die_  five feet from freedom.”

“'Nough said,” he responds, unable to help the flash of teeth in a grin as he leans down and encases her opposite side. Root and Reese stand, abandoning the wheelchair entirely as they start off. Shaw holds herself up by placing an arm around each of their necks; one hand still wielding a gun. And the three continue down the path without another word, the two friends walking briskly towards the gate; Shaw’s feet dragging limply between.

**Author's Note:**

> Lumbar Spine injuries are one of the ways paraplegia occurs; and a good 15% of these injuries occur from assault; whether it be a gunshot or a knife wound. Also, Gehenna is a word- Hebrew reference- to Hell (: (see the tumblr post of this for source links, they don't seem to be converting well here.)


End file.
